


Heaven

by Zeiskyte



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Dorovain in the wake of the war, F/M, Quiet morning at the Gautier estate, post azure moon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 09:21:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25847242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeiskyte/pseuds/Zeiskyte
Summary: When Sylvain opens his eyes, it is to the sight of the most beautiful woman he has ever seen.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Kudos: 20





	Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a birthday present to my best friend (who does not have an AO3, sadly).

When Sylvain opened his eyes, it was to the sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

Her face was pressed into the crook of his neck and her breath was hot against his skin. Long, chocolate brown hair cascaded down her back, ends curling to tickle Sylvain's stomach. Her slender arm was draped over his chest, fingers curled around the neckline of his loungewear; his own arm was protectively wrapped around her shoulders, shielding her from the light of the Faerghusian winter sun slipping in through the window. Their legs were tangled impossibly together and their wool blanket had been kicked to the foot of the bed in their sleep.

Blinking down at his wife with a soft smile, Sylvain knew she would chide him for staring at her once she woke up. But how could he not? She was _gorgeous_ \- she was the apple of his eye, the prettiest rose in the garden. Her thorns were still there, sharpened by the harsh years of war, but that was what made her more enchanting. Sylvain was captivated, snared in her vines - and yet, he felt more free than he ever had in his entire life.

She loved him for _him_. Not as the noble Margrave Gautier, and certainly not as a carrier of the Crest of Gautier. For the first time in his life, a woman loved Sylvain Jose Gautier - and it was _liberating_.

How he had earned her was a mystery. Back at the monastery, Sylvain had always flirted with girls for the thrill. It was all a game, really - because if women only wanted a superficial version of him, he was more than happy to provide. To him, romance was a _weapon_. If he didn't want to get hurt, he needed to strike first.

But she had cut through his scheme the first time he flirted with her. What a sharp eye, seeing right through Sylvain in his very first attempt of undermining her! Perhaps it took a sham to know one.

Sylvain was smart - smart enough to know not to _act_ smart in order to avoid others having expectations of him - and he knew deflection when he saw it. A commoner loved only for her looks, her voice, and the performance she put on upon a stage... bitter over the increasing pile of marriage proposals after a show.

Because really, those men didn't want _her_. Not the parts of her that mattered, at least.

Sylvain, half-caught in memories of grubby fingers shoving him into a well, could empathize. That cloudy afternoon in the monastery when she asked him if women would love him when he was a wrinkly old man, he _knew_. Something had shifted in his brain and, when he met her half-lidded emerald eyes, it was like looking in a mirror.

She _understood_ \- and Sylvain doubted a single dinner together could be a fitting celebration for the bridge they had just built.

The five long years of war were awful, without her. Sylvain was once again trapped in Faerghus, trapped in the confines of the Crest system and values of knighthood, and the Lance of Ruin thrummed in his fingers. Miklan was dead, Prince Dimitri was missing, and Sylvain wanted to be anywhere besides Gautier, defending the Sreng line. Felix was fending off Empire troops, as was Ingrid.

But as always, Sylvain was _trapped_ ; unable to escape his past, and certainly unable to carve his future. Enslaved by his family's traditional duty, his Crest burned like a brand on his heart; if they won this war, _what then?_ The Crest system would be reinforced. Faerghusian ideals of knighthood would prevail, and boys would lose brothers for countless more generations to come.

If Sylvain were to die, would his father parade him around as a hero? Would Sylvain be remembered as a _true knight?_

Sylvain ran a hand through her hair to ground himself. The war had been over for three years now, and they were both alive. Edelgard had fallen, Claude had escaped to Almyra, and Dimitri had claimed the throne. Profe- _Byleth_ was in the midst of reforming the Church, and she was implementing some of Edelgard's ideals, as per King Dimitri's requests. Crests would become less important in the social standings of society, and Fódlan was united under one banner.

But the war had still _happened_. Many of her former Black Eagles lay buried six feet under, some left to rot on the fields of Gronder, and others in ashes. They had stood with Edelgard, and they believed their war to be just.

And really, who's to say it wasn't? Sylvain spent many nights wide awake wondering if Dimitri had been in the right. Victors were the sole authors of history, so maybe it hardly mattered now. The textbooks would say the Faerghusian army walked the true path of justice; Faerghus won, and she would decide the truth.

Winning the war was bittersweet, considering the heavy feelings of loss weighing down the victory. Half of the nation was dead, society was in shambles, and the Church was crumbling at the seams. What Fódlan needed was _leaders_ , and Sylvain had a Crest and a bloodline to live up to, for better or for worse.

After years of rebuilding Fódlan, Sylvain could only _begin_ to see the changes. Nobility was still favored, Crests were still revered - but it was getting better, at least. Change did not occur instantly. But maybe one day, they would live in a world where one's status in life was no longer determined on their day of birth.

Nobleman, commoner... he cared not. If Sylvain had been roped into an arranged marriage with a noblewoman, he would be miserable. Living his life with a woman forced to love him, making Crest babies out of obligation? Sylvain would rather _die_.

It was a good thing he met the woman of his dreams, then.

He loved her bleeding heart, her sharp words, and her cunning tongue. Her beauty was only matched by her wit; her emerald eyes were meticulous and saw past the countless walls Sylvain had constructed to protect himself from hurt. Her button nose, soft lips - the way her hair framed her face. Slender arms and legs, and a wink that would send men and women alike into heat. She was a whirlwind of charm, ferocity, and everything in between.

During the war, he had seen her fingers alight with the strongest magic in tomes known to Fódlan. He had seen the sadness in her eyes at the corpses scattered across the battlefield, watched as she clenched her bloodstained hands into fists and mourned dead friends. _Only thorns left on this rose_ , she had whispered on a particularly vulnerable day, standing on the outskirts of Gronder Field, _who would want me now?_

Sylvain continued running his hand through her brown locks. His hands were calloused from years of wielding lances, and the smoothness of her hair lingered as warmth against his fingertips. War had shaped both of them, hadn't it? Some days, Sylvain felt like a husk, forced to mold into the shape of a functional human being. He moved as languid as molasses and his shadow seemed to weigh him down. Death had become such a commonality in their lives, it frightened Sylvain how quickly he adapted to watching the light leave a person's eyes. On days like those, guilt, heavy as a ball and chain attached to his ankle, threatened to drag him down to the very depths of hell.

What had he said to Hubert as the man bled out from a lance wound? Right - _Burn until we meet again_. Because really, where would they all end up at the end of this? Far away from heaven, that was certain.

Sylvain felt eyelashes flutter open against his neck. She lifted her head up, blinking clear green eyes at him, and smiled coyly at him. "It's rude to stare, you know."

Her voice was heavy with sleep, belying her ferocity, and her yawn elicited a laugh out of him. "Try being less gorgeous or I might have to stare at you for the rest of your life."

She tilted her head, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. She teased her fingers along his collarbone. "You wouldn't want to look at an old hag like me, I'm afraid."

Sylvain tightened his grip on her shoulders possessively, honey-colored eyes softening upon meeting her emerald gaze. "If that old hag was you, I'd stare at her until I went blind."

She smiled at him before nuzzling back into his neck. "How _noble_ of you."

Hell would eventually claim him and his soul would surely meet with the eternal flames - but on mornings like these, Sylvain believed in heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/Zeiskyte)!


End file.
